


extinguishing the light

by KHansen



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Background Relationships, Blood Magic, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hopeful Ending, Mage Jaskier | Dandelion, Memory Loss, Mild Gore, Necromancer Jaskier | Dandelion, Necromancy, No Beta, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Sacrifice, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:29:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29428152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHansen/pseuds/KHansen
Summary: One wrong step. That's all it takes.One wrong step and the White Wolf is slain.Eskel won't let that be Geralt's end.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 40
Collections: The Witcher Quick Fic #06





	extinguishing the light

One wrong step. That’s all it takes.

Eskel hears the shout of surprise and pain. He turns just in time to see the claws embedded deeply in Geralt’s chest rip free with a horrific squelch. Geralt collapses like a puppet with its strings cut.

_“NO!”_ Eskel roars. The katakan screeches back at him. It doesn’t get the chance to strike a second time before Eskel’s blade is cleaving its head from its neck in a spray of foul ichor.

Uncaring of the beast whose blood stains the forest floor, Eskel rushes to Geralt’s side. He drops to his knees and starts searching Geralt’s potions for something– Swallow, Kiss, White Rafford’s Decoction, hell even Gadwall– _anything._

“Where the fuck are all your healing potions?” Eskel growls, coming up empty. 

“Never… needed them,” Geralt gasps out. His teeth are stained crimson with his own blood. 

Eskel’s own potions are too far away; he can’t retrieve them and return in time, not with the speed Geralt’s fading at.

“What does that _mean?”_ Eskel wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Never needed healing potions? What fucking witcher doesn’t need _healing_ potions?

Geralt’s glistening red lips soundlessly move, his mouth foaming as he pushes the last breath he’ll ever take through the blood that congeals in his throat. Eskel’s eyes are burning, his teeth bared in anguish.

With a rattling exhale, Geralt is gone.

Eskel screams his grief into the uncaring heavens, some small part of him begging the apathetic gods for a miracle. None comes.

What is he to do? Geralt is his best friend, his _brother,_ and now he’s dead. The life of a witcher is a dangerous one fraught with mortal peril at every turn, but Eskel never truly believed that Geralt would perish before him. Not the White Wolf.

A healer. He needs to get Geralt to a healer. No, a sorceress. Surely that’s how Geralt never required any medicinal potions, his sorcerer friends would look after him. They’re not far from Tretogor, where Ciri is staying with Yennefer and Triss. They can help Geralt, they have to.

Eskel forces himself to move, getting to his feet and scooping Geralt up in his arms. His brother’s weight is negligible to the desperation that fuels his steps, driving him to Scorpion and Roach. With the canvas from one of their tents, Eskel shrouds Geralt’s corpse and carefully binds him to Roach’s saddle. 

Roach stomps uneasily, tossing her head to eye the body draped across her back. “I know, easy, girl,” Eskel murmurs, running his hand down her neck. Geralt’s blood paints her fur black. 

Eskel looks down at his hands, bathed in the blood of his brother. They shake and waver before his eyes, tears dripping from his crooked nose and mixing with the crimson that paints his palms. If he were a poet, Eskel would say it’s a metaphor for grief.

But he’s not a bard, so he cleans his hands with a rag and ties Roach’s reins to Scorpion’s saddle before mounting his steed. The night is silent and the moon dim, the shadows that stretch through the woods hazy around the edges, a perfect hiding place for the beasts that lurk in the dark. Eskel can’t afford to be watchful for them, his time is waning; every second Geralt is dead is a second he can’t regain.

It’s a day’s ride to Tretogor, Eskel pushing the horses to walk through the night, the day, and the night again. Roach’s head is hung with fatigue and Scorpion is chomping at the bit, foam flecking his sides, but they arrive under the cover of night at the door with a flower box of feainnewedd growing beside it. 

With Geralt in his arms, Eskel uses his boot to knock on the door, the painted wood rattling in its frame. A lamp is lit inside, the flame flickering as it approaches the door. Eskel hears light footsteps, the rasp of a hand over the door handle, the fluttering of two heartbeats.

“Eskel?” Triss opens the door, a frown pulling at her attractive face. Her skin is an illuminated bronze in the candlelight and her hair is tied back in a silk kerchief. She must have been in bed. Triss’s dark eyes drop to the shrouded body in his arms and she gasps. “Is that–?”

“Yes,” Eskel’s voice is rough with disuse and emotion, “Please, you have to help him.”

“Triss?” Ciri’s voice calls out and the sorceress glances behind her.

“Go back to your bed, Ciri.”

“Is everything okay?”

Triss’s gaze flicks back to Eskel and the body. “Everything’s fine, I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

They wait until Ciri’s footsteps vanish back upstairs before Triss steps away and opens the door, “Bring him in,” she says softly. Eskel does as he’s told, carrying Geralt to the kitchen and laying him gently atop the table. Triss locks the kitchen door behind them with a muttered word.

“Uncover him,” she commands. Eskel peels back the shroud, biting his gnarled lip at the sight of his brother. Geralt’s skin is damp with a light sheen of decay, rigor mortis remaining only in the stiffness of his fingers and knees. The blood that coats his torso is brown with age.

Triss looks at Geralt’s corpse and swallows thickly, “Eskel…”

“Please, you have to help him,” Eskel pleads, his hands curling into fists upon the table he leans against, “he can’t die, not like this.”

Triss walks over and places a gentle hand upon Eskel’s shoulder, “He _has_ died, Eskel. It’s the natural order of things.” 

He can’t accept that. He _won’t_ accept that. Except… she’s right. 

Eskel makes a wounded noise and Triss sighs sympathetically, “If it were only moments– minutes at most– after death then maybe I’d be able to revive him. As it is, though… At this point you’d need–” She cuts herself and presses her lips together tightly.

“I’d need what?” Eskel asks desperately, clinging to her arm. He’s certain his grip is too tight but Triss’s expression doesn’t betray any discomfort. “Triss, _please,_ you’re my only option.”

She looks away, her eyes troubled as she squints uneasily at the shadows cast upon the walls by the flickering lantern. He can hear the subtle grinding of her teeth as she thinks, practically able to see the cogs turning in her head.

“There _is…”_ she huffs and rubs her eyes, “I really shouldn’t tell you this, it’s dangerous magic, banned by the Brotherhood entirely other than as something to be warned of.”

_“Please,_ Triss.”

She looks over at him, looking like she’s swallowed a lemon before sighing in defeat, “There’s a magic user in Oxenfurt. He’s… he can bring the dead back to life. I’ve never seen it done but his name is well known among sorcerers as a shining beacon of what _not_ to do.”

“Do you know how I can find him?” A tiny spark of hope flares to life in Eskel’s soul, the smallest amount of light fighting the endless darkness of grief.

Triss pulls away from Eskel’s tight grip, rubbing her arm and then lightly touching Geralt’s forehead. A shimmer of magic envelops his corpse, leaving a faint glittering shine on his skin. Before Eskel can even ask what she’s done she explains, “A preservation spell. He won’t decay any further before you find the necromancer. I’ve been told you can find Dandelion at the Rosemary and Thyme tavern most nights.”

“Seems an odd place for a necromancer to spend his time.”

She shrugs, giving him a sad smile, “He’s a practitioner of a forbidden magic, who knows why he does any of what he does?”

Eskel hums and settles down in a chair beside the table. Triss pats him on the shoulder as she yawns, dark shadows under her eyes. “Think about what you’re about to do before you do it, okay? There’s a reason necromancy is forbidden. All magic has a price, some steeper than others.”

“Thank you, Triss,” Eskel says quietly, unable to tear his eyes away from the cold corpse upon the table, “I’ll think about it.”

She smiles slightly and gives his shoulder a squeeze. Before she leaves she pauses at the door, “I’m so sorry to ask this of you, but can you please leave before Ciri wakes up in the morning? I don’t want her to see…” Her eyes flicker to Geralt.

He nods in agreement and falls into silence as Triss parts, closing the door to the kitchen behind her. With his arms crossed, Eskel watches Geralt’s unchanging visage through the night, deep in his thoughts and desperately wishing he could be deep in his cups. What if this necromancer is nothing but hearsay? If Eskel travels to Oxenfurt only to find out Dandelion is only a charlatan, profiting off of the grief of others? 

Eskel reminds himself that this Dandelion is a figurehead of forbidden magic amongst the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. That has to be an impressive feat, to have sorcerers the likes of Stregobor– known for his experimental magics– renounce your practices. 

But what will the price be? He’ll pay it, of course, no matter the cost but Eskel can’t help wondering what the take of this kind of magic will be. Another life, perhaps?

Would he take another life in exchange for Geralt’s? What kind of man would that make him? He’s not a man, of course not, he’s a witcher; but, would Geralt be able to live with the knowledge that Eskel killed someone else so that Geralt may live another day? 

“So maybe not any price,” Eskel murmurs. He’s not ready to die himself, not just yet, so offering his own life in exchange isn’t an option. Does that make him selfish? How could he think his life is worth more than that of Geralt? 

These queries plague Eskel all through the night and well into the following days, still lingering as he passes through the gates of Oxenfurt two weeks later. He’s acquired a cart drawn by Scorpion– Roach left in the hands of a stablemaster in Tretogor along with a heavy coin purse– and Geralt’s corpse is laid within it atop a bed of hay and concealed by a clean tarp. If Eskel focuses, he can hear the whisper of the wheat against Geralt’s frozen skin.

The Rosemary and Thyme tavern is bustling and rowdy with the students of Oxenfurt, the autumn session in full swing. A bard is performing jovially, his bootheels thumping on the table he dances a jig atop and his fingers fly across the frets of his lute. Eskel pays him little mind as he pushes through the crowd, searching for the barkeep.

“Excuse me,” Eskel calls for a barmaid, stopping one as she passes, “Could you tell me where I could find a man called Dandelion?”

She peers up at him with bright green eyes, her lips parted in a surprised ‘o’. “Ain’t you a witcher?”

“I am,” he nods, steeling himself for the horror and rejection he’s surely about to face.

And yet… she doesn’t look frightened. Hell, her eyes don’t even linger on the scars that carve a jagged path through his face. She looks… _eager?_

“Oh! Dandelion’s sung such wonderful songs about witcherfolk!” She beams at him and then looks at the bard, “That’s the fella there. He’s not in a spot of trouble again, is he?”

Again? “No, I just want to talk to him,” Eskel watches the man dance, his feet doing a complicated series of steps without faltering or losing beat. His dark hair is damp with sweat and his burgundy doublet is draped over a chair, leaving him in just a tan shirt that’s salaciously unlaced.

“He ought to be done in a half shake then, Master Witcher, sir.”

He turns to correct her but she’s already disappeared back into the crowd, a small frown tugging at his lips. Something about the bard– Dandelion, apparently– strikes him as familiar but he can’t quite pinpoint what. Luminous blue eyes gleam merrily behind the curtain of sweaty hair that curls across his brow, and Eskel could almost swear there’s the faintest hint of magic entwined with the melody that has the audience stomping and dancing along.

Instead of interrupting the performance as his instincts urge him to, Eskel settles down at a table in the corner of the tavern, awaiting the end of the bard’s song cycle. He drinks through two and a half pints of ale before Dandelion shows any slowing, the man’s chest heaving and his shirt damp and sticking to him as well. He had passed by Eskel’s table several times once he hopped down from his makeshift stage and something about him smelled incredibly familiar, but Eskel can’t figure out why. He’s never met this man before in his life.

“Thank you! Thank you all for your rapt attention, you were a wonderful audience!” Dandelion announces as he finishes his final piece, bowing to the crowd, “But this is where I must bid you farewell. Consider tossing a coin to your bard, eh?” He winks and the crowd laughs. Quite a few people approach him to give him compliments or tip the performer, so Eskel waits until the crowd has thinned and the noise of the tavern has reduced to that of idle chatter before approaching himself.

The gold piece he drops into the feathered cap on the bard’s table clinks against the other coins and Dandelion looks up from oiling his lute. “Why, thank you, sir–” His eyes widen in shock but, just as with the barmaid, he looks excited instead of revolted. “You’re a witcher! How wonderful, I haven’t seen any witchers in some time.”

Eskel, unused to being called things like “wonderful”, ignores this and gets straight to business, “How much to secure your company for the night?”

Dandelion blinks and a light flush appears on his cheeks, “Master Witcher, I’m quite flattered and would, on any other night, be more than happy to accept your proposal. However, I’m rather tired tonight and would prefer to retire to my bed alone.”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t asking to fuck you,” Eskel says bluntly and Dandelion’s blush darkens. “I want to talk to you.”

“What about, might I ask?”

“It’s not a conversation for prying ears.”

Dandelion glances around thoughtfully and then nods, “Alright. Let me just finish up here and I’ll meet you out front.” Eskel hums in agreement– and isn’t that an odd expression Dandelion adopts when Eskel does that– before turning and walking out of the tavern. No nonsense.

Thankfully, Dandelion also seems to be uninterested in lollygagging, as he appears less than five minutes later. “I have a home nearby we can speak at. Do you have any effects that will be traveling with us, Master Witcher?”

“Eskel,” he corrects, “And yes, my horse and cart.” Dandelion looks surprised, and then delighted.

“Eskel? Did I hear that right? As in _the_ Eskel of the Wolf school?”

Eskel feels a creeping sense of confusion. “I… yes. I’m sorry, have we met before? I’m not famous, not like–”

“Geralt, of course not. I mean no disrespect, Eskel, from what I’ve been told you’re an exceptional witcher, it’s just that you’re so skilled that you had no use of my services in changing public opinion about you.” Dandelion grins as clasps his hands behind his back as he watches Eskel untie Scorpion from the hitching post. Together they start walking away from the Rosemary and Thyme, Dandelion leading the way.

“How do you…” Eskel frowns before realization dawns on him, _“You’re_ Geralt’s bard?”

“Master Bard Jaskier, at your service,” Dandelion sweeps into a low bow, or as best one he can manage while they’re walking. “Also known as Dandelion.”

“Did Geralt know?” Eskel blurts and Jaskier looks confused.

“Know what?”

“That you can– just... of your magic.”

Jaskier’s open expression shutters as his polite smile freezes upon his lips. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about, Eskel. I’m as human as they come. Now, come along if you wish to speak with me privately, I’m a very busy man after all.” He falls silent as his walking pace increases, almost as though he’s trying to outrace Eskel. They reach the door of a small, quaint cottage and Jaskier allows them entry, glancing at the cart and the tarp knowingly.

“Come in, and bring your belongings with you. I suspect you aren’t here for just a friendly visit.”

Eskel doesn’t reply, just scooping Geralt’s body up and carrying it into the house still shrouded. Jaskier closes the door behind him and locks it, drawing the curtains shut and then indicating the bed in the corner of the room. “Lay him there.”

The witcher does as instructed, pulling the tarp off of Geralt while Jaskier gets a fire going. Only once the flames are roaring and the kindling is crackling merrily does Jaskier glance at the corpse on his bed. He says nothing, only sighing, before getting a kettle and hanging it over the fire. “Tea?”

“I… yes, please.”

Jaskier nods and nudges an armchair with his foot, “Have a seat. Tell me the whole story, if you please.” Eskel opens his mouth to argue but Jaskier raises a hand to silence him, “I’m aware that you’ve been patient and feel as though you’ve waited long enough, but Geralt isn’t getting any deader. Now sit.”

Eskel, properly cowed, sits down and settles his hands in his lap. “It was a hunt. Katakan, actually. I was distracted recovering my sword after it disarmed me. Geralt was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I can see a preservation spell has been placed on his corpse,” Jaskier observes, walking over to Geralt and brushing his fingers over the White Wolf’s cheek. Tiny sparks zap between the pads of his fingers and Geralt’s skin.

“Triss Merigold’s work.”

“It’s impeccable. How long post mortem was it applied?”

“Only a day.”

Jaskier hums and walks back over, sitting down across from Eskel and crossing his legs. “It won’t be easy to bring him back, not so long after death. But I can do it. I’m familiar with Geralt.”

A wave of relief crashes over him, Eskel’s shoulders slumping and a rush of air whooshing from his lungs. A weight he didn’t know he was carrying is lifted off of his chest as he takes his first full breath in a fortnight. “Thank y–”

“Wait, before you thank me you ought to know what is required of my particular specialty.”

“All magic has a price,” Eskel recalls and Jaskier nods.

“The price for evading death is higher than most. As I’m sure you’re aware, mages and sorcerers are able to control the price of their magic, the give and take of the chaos. With necromancy, there is only the one price.”

“Another life?”

Jaskier shakes his head, “No, a part of one’s soul. With each resurrection, a part of the host’s soul is lost.”

“So Geralt would lose part of his soul? Would he still be the same?”

The bard chuckles humorlessly, “I’m far too selfish to allow the cost be part of Geralt’s soul. I’ve done this procedure many times with Geralt over the two decades I traveled with him.”

Eskel frowns as he realizes what Jaskier means, “Geralt’s died before?”

“Many times over.”

“And you’ve resurrected him every time? How is he not a soulless husk?”

Jaskier looks at Eskel for a long moment before licking his lips and looking away, “I obviously don’t offer up Geralt’s soul.”

“Then whose–”

“Oh, you know, this or that person. Usually drunks, people who wouldn’t be remiss without a tiny piece of their soul,” Jaskier waves his hand dismissively but Eskel can tell he’s struck a nerve.

“What happens when someone loses a part of their soul?”

Jaskier watches the fire and drums his fingers on the arm of his own chair, “Hard to say. I’ve never stuck around to see the side effects. Ordinarily didn’t have the time before my... donors were running back screaming about dark magic.” He shakes his head to clear it, turning and looking at Eskel once more, “So, in order to perform this marvel of magic, a new donor will be required.”

“Would anyone even willingly offer up their soul?” Eskel argues, “For a witcher, no less? You’ve done a lot to repair the reputation of witchers, Jaskier, and for that I’m thankful to you, but there’s still too much animosity between humans and non-humans.”

“You’re right, no one would; witcher or not. There’s a reason I had to steal the souls required.”

“And Geralt knew about this? He was _alright_ with that?”

Jaskier scoffs, “Of course he didn’t know. I told him it was all consensual, another chance at life offered up to him by a particularly gracious townsperson. I don’t think he believed it, much, but he was loath to question my methods. No, Geralt didn’t have a problem with what he knew of the process, not until I had no other options than to use my own soul.”

Eskel frowns, “Why would he have a problem with that when he was willing to allow others to allegedly offer themselves up?”

“Willing, I think, is an overstatement. Geralt didn’t like any of it, but he knew I’d continue to use my abilities to save him regardless so he learned to not protest.” He runs a hand through his hair. Jaskier looks tired, his blue eyes dull and dark shadows marring the paleness of his skin. “Did Geralt ever tell you what we were to each other?”

“He said… that you were his friend. That he wasn’t sure why you followed him around, but you did and he enjoyed your company. That you were his companion.”

“Did he? Well, that’s nice,” Jaskier smiles slightly, “We were a bit more than that. But not quite anything spectacular. Not exactly the romance for the ages, but we did love each other. I suspect Geralt still loves me.”

“You said ‘did’ love each other,” Eskel says softly.

Jaskier hums, “I did, didn’t I? Well, we did. I did. This magic, Eskel, it takes _any_ part of your soul.”

Eskel has a sneaking suspicion he knows what part of Jaskier’s soul it took, dread at learning the answer coloring his quiet words, “What did it take of yours?”

“My ability to love. I can love nothing and no one now, I can’t even remember the feelings that justified my sacrifice to Geralt,” his smile turns bitter, “What a terrible existence it is, to be unable to love. Everything is so monotonous and boring, like the world is painted in grays. Nothing brings me true joy anymore, nor true sadness. Who could have thought that love is what makes the bitterness of anger flare so bright? Or that it colors your every bite of sweet bun?” 

Jaskier hums tonelessly. “Even my music, my livelihood… I’m unable to write anything new. How could I, when I lack the passion that fueled my career thus far? Everything I create is flat and unimaginative so I must rely on the popularity of my old work until it falls out of style and then I shall live out the rest of my eternity a shadow of my former self.”

His blue eyes turn to Eskel, holding the witcher in place with his electric gaze, “Geralt was heartbroken. So we parted ways. I highly doubt he’s forgiven me for my decision.”

Eskel doesn’t speak. What can he say? That he wants Geralt back regardless of the risk? That he’s willing to lose his best friend so that he may live? That what happened to Jaskier won’t happen to him? How can he even know for sure it wouldn’t? The magic is dangerous and unpredictable.

And yet.

“Use my soul.”

Jaskier blinks, arching an eyebrow at Eskel, “Your soul?”

“Yes.” 

“You do understand that the magic can take _anything_ it wants from you, yes?” Jaskier warns, “Most likely what’s dearest to you, considering the extent of the damage.”

What’s dearest to him? There’s nothing that Eskel holds dear, nothing that he can’t keep safe in his memory at least. “I have nothing of value.”

Jaskier watches him for a long moment, flat eyes calculating and thoughtful. Finally, he nods. “Alright. I’ll prepare the ritual.”

“Ritual?” Eskel asks, mildly alarmed. He watches as Jaskier goes to a cabinet, removing six candles as well as a curved dagger. “What kind of ritual?”

Jaskier opens the cabinet above and pulls a few jars of herbs from the top shelf, “the stereotypical kind that would accompany any sort of nefarious ritual.”

“I thought you said another life wasn’t given for this.”

“It isn’t. Just a little prick of the finger, darling, nothing more. We have to show the chaos whose soul to take a bite of after all,” Jaskier grabs a shallow bowl and brings all of the materials and ingredients over to the bed, setting them on the bedside table. He grinds up some black berries into a paste using a mortar in the bowl, adding some crushed herb that is heavy with the stench of rotting meat. With a sprig of feainnewedd and a dash of powdered scarix, Jaskier sets aside the odorous paste.

He then picks up the candles and carries them to the fireplace, holding the bases near the flames to soften them before sticking them to various surfaces to surround Geralt’s corpse. One on each bedpost, one on the bedside table, and one on the sill of the small window opposite the table. Following this, Jaskier lights a long piece of kindling and uses it to ignite the candles, murmuring Elder beneath his breath as he does so. 

“Your hand please, Eskel,” Jaskier holds his hand out and Eskel places his own atop it. Jaskier flips Eskel’s hand over so it’s face up and then quickly drags the knife across Eskel’s palm. Eskel barely flinches, just curling his fingers into a fist as Jaskier guides him and lets the blood drip from his hand into the bowl. The paste dissipates with a sizzling hiss, a dark steam rising from the surface as the crimson concoction turns a deep black.

“Thank you,” Jaskier murmurs. He swirls the black liquid around the bowl as he mutters a few words of Elder. He then tosses the contents of the bowl in an arc over Geralt’s body. Eskel inhales sharply as the liquid turns to a vapor. Jaskier blows into the center of the vapor cloud.

It disperses instantly, dividing itself into six equal parts and vanishing into the candles. The flames turn a glittering onyx as dark runes etch themselves into the tallow, flowing down the sticks like water. The smoke that had been rising from the candles changes directions, settling in pools at the base of the candles until the smoke is spilling over the edges of the surfaces they’re adhered to.

A thick layer of the aromatic smoke covers the floor, quickly filling the cottage and settling at their ankles. Jaskier places a hand on Geralt’s forehead, his other laid over the White Wolf’s heart, and closes his eyes. The cottage is completely silent, not even the crackling of the fire able to be heard beneath the oppression of gathering chaos. The hair on Eskel’s arms raises as static snaps across his skin. 

The window bangs open as a gale shatters the silence, the candle flames unmoving in the windstorm that blows out the fire, plunging the room into hollow darkness. The howling of the wind fills Eskel’s ears, tugs at his clothes, batters his skin. He raises a hand to shield his eyes, blinking hard to see through the twister. Jaskier’s hair blows wildly around his head, but Geralt’s is completely still, not a wrinkle out of place in the chaos that writhes through the air.

Eskel feels something cold grab ensnare his chest, his heart thudding painfully and unevenly. The icy fingers tighten in a vice grip around his lungs. Unable to draw a full breath, Eskel drops to his knees. The edges of his vision waiver.

He hears screaming. It’s not his own. His head is pounding. He looks up to see Jaskier screaming through grit teeth. Sweat drips down the man’s temple as he holds his body tense as a bowstring. Blood flows freely from Jaskier’s nose. The wind buffets him, trying to push him away, but the necromancer doesn’t give up.

Eskel feels like he might be forgetting something. His head threatens to burst.

As suddenly as it began, the wind vanishes. The window slams shut. The candles extinguish.

There’s a shuddering gasp from the bed.

* * *

Everything hurts.

His legs ache with pins and needles, his fingers throbbing in time with his slow beating heart. His chest screams and his every breath burns his throat. As Geralt peels his eyes open, he has to groan and blink against the low light of a fire. 

All of these sensations are familiar.

Alarmingly familiar.

Did he die?

Geralt sits up quickly, breathing heavily through his mouth to stave off the wave of nausea that threatens to empty his stomach– which, now that he thinks about it, is cramping with hunger. After a few laborious seconds, Geralt attempts to open his eyes again and squints at the scene around him.

The first thing he notes are the two heartbeats, one slow with sleep and the other as sluggish as his own. Next is Jaskier collapsed in a chair nearby, his eyes closed and mouth hanging open as he slumbers. He looks awful, pale and sickly, his skin carrying a sallowness to it that diminishes his natural beauty. Geralt could stare at him for hours, even as his heart twists painfully in remembrance of what he once had but never will again, but forces himself to look away at the other occupant of the cottage.

Eskel sits in a chair by the fire, the soft scraping of a knife against a block of wood accompanying the merry crackling of the flames. He watches Eskel whittle in a mild state of shock, how did Eskel know about Jaskier’s abilities? Why did he bring Geralt to Jaskier? Does he know about Geralt’s sordid history with the necromancer?”

Eskel’s eyes, mirrors of Geralt’s own, glance up. “Oh, good, you’re awake.”

“Eskel, what…” Geralt’s voice is raspy, rougher than it normally is, and Eskel gets to his feet to bring him a cup of water. Geralt guzzles it greedily, ignoring how the water makes his stomach roar its empty displeasure. “What’s going on? How are we here?”

“Jaskier told me to let you know that he’ll be out for a while yet,” Eskel looks at Jaskier, watching the bard’s chest rise and fall steadily, “you were fully dead.”

“I– yes, I gathered as much. What are _you_ doing here? How did we even get here?”

Eskel purses his lips and looks like he’s trying to figure out the right answers for Geralt’s questions. “I think you’d be better off asking Jaskier those things.”

“Why? I was with you when… the katakan hunt, don’t you remember?”

“No, actually.”

Geralt feels as though he’s been doused in ice water, his heart stuttering and his blood freezing, “You don’t remember? What do you remember?”

Eskel settles on the edge of the bed, the straw mattress exhaling beneath his weight, “Nothing. Well, that’s not true, Jaskier was able to restore some of my memories. I remember training and the Trials, I remember parts of the Path.”

“You don’t remember me.”

The words feel heavy on his tongue. A thick, bitter sludge of grief coating the back of his throat and choking him.

Eskel shakes his head, “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

_“How?”_ Geralt asks, his eyes burning. “How could you forget?”

Geralt prays to any gods who might be listening that the next words out of Eskel’s mouth aren’t the five words he dreads most in the world. The five words that took away everything Geralt’s ever held dear: Yennefer’s blind devotion, Ciri’s unending adoration, Jaskier’s unconditional love.

Eskel’s voice is soft as he utters the five words that have broken Geralt again and again: “All magic has a price.”

_“No,_ no. No! Jaskier should have told you, should have warned you–” Geralt’s devastation sparks rage within him, his voice rising as he tries to reach for Jaskier. He’s going to strangle some sense into the man, how could he do this? How could he allow Geralt to lose what he never thought possible? 

_Because he doesn’t love you anymore._

“Geralt, Geralt!” Eskel grabs Geralt by the shoulders and presses him back into the bed, “He did warn me. I remember that part. He told me that the magic could take any part of my soul, any bit at all.”

“And you agreed anyway?” Geralt laughs, half-mad, “You knew what this magic could fucking do and you still said _yes?”_

Eskel is quiet for a moment, “I suspect that I had good reason to. You must mean a lot to me, Geralt.”

“How would you know?” Geralt shakes his head, “You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t.” Eskel agrees. He reaches out and places a warm, comforting hand on Geralt’s shoulder until Geralt looks at him. “But I think I’d like to.”

> “Death is not extinguishing the light. It is putting out the lamp because the dawn has come.” -Rabindranath Tagore


End file.
